Seize the Moment
by Ink On Paper
Summary: /"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I ended up where I needed to be," -Douglas Adams/  . . . . Tiva.


**A/N: Happy Valentine's Day everybody! I wanted to do a little oneshot in honor of the holiday of love (I wrote Instant Messaging last year) but I didn't know what angle to take. So I remembered a little arc that I've featured (more like snuck) in my past two episode tags (A Proposition and Renaissance) and here is the damage of that little plot bunny. Be forewarned: It is ridiculously fluffy and equally cliched in every way possible. :^) Much love, keep the peace and until next time, Kit!**

**Lyrics belong to Elvis Presley and my addiction to the song belongs to Ingrid Michaelson's version of the same masterpiece. **

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine.**

Seize The Moment

_Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you. . . ._

Fifteen hours ago he was freezing his butt off, waiting for the heater to defrost his car interior as ice crystalized on the windshield and his breath clouded about his face. Six inches of fresh powder had appeared during the night, ushering in the subarctic temperatures that required parkas and reindeer-driven sleds and not thin suit jackets and '99 Mustangs. The sky had maintained its dull grey color that threatened more snow and no reprieve and clearly the groundhog was wrong –at least for the northeastern United States.

In respect to the equatorial part of the globe, old Phil seemed spot on.

He grins at nothing in particular as he makes his way back to the umbrella, the warm air settling around him, making him pleasantly drowsy. Cool water laps at his feet as he navigates shell-pockmarked shoreline, the saturated sand sinking slightly with his weight every step he takes. And he's gone from one extreme to the other and it is so welcomed, this change of scenery. Cloudless blue sky has replaced bitter winter air, the temperature changing from an unforgiving forty-two degrees to a balmy eighty-five. There's sand in lieu of snow, flourishing palms instead of skeletal trees long dormant, and no ice in sight.

The ocean glitters as far out as he can see, a tropical turquoise that seems to be alive, breathing with incoming waves and the periodic disturbances wrought by lucky pelicans that have no knowledge of the meat freezer that is the northern half of the hemisphere.

And while the weather is nice and forgiving on his aging bones and the burst of color a glorious change from the dull monotone he's been plagued with since late November, he can think of one thing that's even better than the surrounding scenery.

He pauses, water still trickling over his feet, and just stares at the woman lying across the lounge chair several yards up the beach.

She's smokin', he thinks, and then he wonders if she even realizes it. Surely she does –surely she has to be aware of just how beautiful she is, how perfect she fits in; all sun-kissed skin and black string bikini.

"Hey," he greets, making his way toward her, and she glances up from her book, peering at him over the rim of her sunglasses.

"Hi," she returns, folding the corner of her page down and setting the paperback in the bag resting beside her. She pushes a loose strand of hair off her face, eyeing the drinks in his hands. "One of those for me?"

His million watt smile is competing with the bright sun overhead as he passes her a martini glass with pale green liquor and lime wedges, "A margarita for the senorita."

"Thank you."

"And a dirty banana for . . . . me," and he leans back on his chair, sprawling out, taking a gracious sip. "This is the life," he sighs, "No snow, no paperwork."

"You were right," she allows, "We did need a vacation."

"I haven't felt my toes in weeks."

She chuckles, glancing at his feet and the sand that's adhered to his skin halfway up his shin. Her gaze travels up and over his body in a manner he'd self-consciously deem appreciative had he been paying attention. "Your ears are getting burnt," she informs him, noticing the redness at the tips of his ears. She digs out the sunscreen before he can reply, squirting a dollop onto her palm and motioning to him to lean over. He complies, making faces at her and eliciting an eye roll for his antics.

"What time do you think it is?" he wonders when she's done. And she just shrugs, replying, "Island time."

"Our dinner reservation is at eight."

She looks up at the sky thoughtfully, framing the sun with her hands, eyebrows disappearing under the tops of her sunglasses as her face scrunches up in mock concentration. The verdict she reaches is, "I'd say about two o'clock," and she turns back to face him and dissolves into laughter. Because he's staring at her like she's some sort of magician, as if she didn't just completely make that up off the top of her head. "I'm joking, Tony," she explains and she can feel his halfhearted glare through his Ray-Bans. "We have at least four hours of beach time left; relax."

He doesn't have to be told twice, picking up her hand and kissing her knuckles before lying back and closing his eyes, "Yes, ma'am."

And it could be the weather or it could just be her, but he's warm inside and out and _happy_.

_Some things are meant to be._

...

The restaurant, located just off the grand lobby, is classy, decorated in ocean blues and modern neutrals, the lights dimmed down low and candles lighted on every table. Several patrons are seated throughout the room, mostly couples, all engaged in intimate conversation. The low honey tones of a cello drift lazily through the air, a waltz accompanied by the baby grand in the corner.

He's exchanged his swim trunks and that gaudy hibiscus print shirt that she insists she hates in favor of charcoal grey dress-pants and a light blue dress-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Her bikini has been replaced with a classic little black dress, the silk skimming the tops of her knees as she moves gracefully on sandaled feet. She's left her hair down because it's humid and not worth the struggle of taming and it tumbles in loose curls around her shoulders and down her back.

He pulls her chair out for her and she sits, murmuring her thanks, glancing around the room. Jellyfish float in suspended animation in a tank that comprises the far wall, living art that exists unaware behind glass. He orders them each a glass of wine, chardonnay for him and pinot noir for her. They talk about everything and nothing, swapping stories about friends and memories, speculating about the truth content in office gossip and rather or not Palmer and his girlfriend will elope –Tony says Vegas and Ziva just laughs imagining it.

Dinner consists of lobster and petit sirloin and steamed vegetables and more salad than the two of them can eat. Everything is fantastic and they share their respective entrees and she allows him to steal her eggplant wedges.

The waiter takes up their plates and returns with a large slice of chocolate mousse cake on a platter adorned with powdered sugar and melted fudge. As the waiter retreats, she turns to chastise him for spoiling her, but he's holding up a forkful of cake for her and one bite won't kill her.

It's the nicest dinner she's had in while and he's always good company.

While they work on dessert, a new melody is picked up by the musicians and she adores this song.

"Elvis," he acknowledges and surely he intended to expand on the statement, but she's mouthing the lyrics to the song without realizing she's doing it and he gets distracted watching her.

"_Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? Because I can't help falling in love with you."_

_..._

They walk on the beach until the rain comes, chasing them back indoors and they stand in the lobby foyer laughing hysterically, sand caked on their feet and Tony's pant legs rolled up past his ankles. They sober after a minute, enough to catch an elevator with another couple who aren't in on the joke. The older pair disembark from the elevator on the third ding and Tony and Ziva ride up two more floors in relative silence. It isn't until he's searching for the room key that she realizes he's been holding her hand.

A triumphant, "Voila!" and the door swings open and he tugs her inside, blocking her view of the room with his body. When he finally moves out of the way, they're standing in the middle of the bedroom and her eyes are wide with surprise.

Rose petals are strewn on the bed and candles are lit on the bedside tables and it's so romantically clichéd and so totally _him_.

"Tony," she says and he startles her slightly by placing his hands on her hips and lowering his lips to her ear, whispering, "Zee-vah."

"You are terrible, you know that?"

"Yeah."

"You did not have to do this."

"I know."

"I am glad you did, though," she turns in his embrace, wrapping her arms around him waist, staring up at him. "I love you, Tony."

And he grins crookedly, dropping a kiss on her lips, "I love you, too, sweetheart."

And they promised each other to never let the other forget, to never let the memories die alone and she has no intention of ever forgetting today or tonight or whatever may come –and come it can and she won't be afraid. Because she will not die alone; she will live on in his memory and he in hers and the knowledge of never being forgotten is comforting. Because life is unpredictable at best and much too short to not feel and love and _be_.

Life's much too short and every moment should be seized and committed to heart.

_Take my hand, take my whole life too, because I can't help falling in love with you._

**_FIN_**


End file.
